


Water In His Eyes

by silverskyfullofstars



Series: Looking For Heaven, Found The Devil In Me [1]
Category: Daredevil (TV), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Character Study, Gen, Vaguely Implied Suicidal Thoughts, shower
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-10
Updated: 2019-02-10
Packaged: 2019-10-25 09:07:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 589
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17722271
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/silverskyfullofstars/pseuds/silverskyfullofstars
Summary: A morning alone. Warm water and slow-moving thought.





	Water In His Eyes

**Author's Note:**

> I'm ace, and I had the random idea to take a shower scene, which is usually coded sexually, and make it different. Leave the connotation, so it can be read however the reader wants, but don’t do anything with it. Take the concept of a shower scene and make it a character study, because I want to see if I can take something people read sexually and remove that part of it. Show them how I see it.

Matt wakes up with the sheets tangled around his waist, kicked down from the remnants of a nightmare. He rolls over into his back slowly, careful of his healing injuries. He lies there for a moment, arm flung above his head, then sits up, sunlight falling across his sightless eyes. It’s warm on his face.

 

The other side of the bed is empty, void. Like the black hole behind his eyes. He doesn’t want it to fill with fire today. He stretches out. _Ha. Not empty anymore_. The minor victory against the voice in his head doesn’t mean anything.

 

He pushes himself up gingerly and sits on the edge of the bed. His skin is prickling with goosebumps - he left a window cracked open, and there’s a breeze. He stands, and the warmth of movement wills the cold away.

 

He pushes open the bathroom door, and he can feel the _woosh_ of the displaced air. He runs a hand through his hair. He brushes his teeth, letting the minty smell overpower his senses. He hangs a towel on the shower door.

 

The water is warm where it hits his skin, rolling down in burning streams. He always runs the water too hot, but the heat and pressure of the pounding water are good. The rushing sound blocks out the world, leaving him in peaceful almost-silence.

 

He raises his hands to work the shampoo through his hair, and he feels the pull on a nearly-healed cut in his side. The scab breaks, and the metallic smell mixes with the scent of soap. There’s not much blood, so he lets the water wash it away. _If only the phantom blood were that cleanly washed away_ …

 

He ducks his head under the spray to rinse his hair. He doesn’t close his eyes. The water and soap rush in, burning. He doesn’t blink. Doesn’t close his eyes, not even when he feels the tiny bubbles on his eyelashes pop and disappear.

 

He leans out of the water, rubbing his eyes even though there’s no need. He’ll never know what the sun looks like filtering through his apartment windows in the early morning. He’ll never know just how the light bounces off the shower tiles and tinges his dark hair with gold.

 

He reaches for the soap, passing across his arms and chest and working up a lather between his palms. He washes like clockwork - driven by habit, barely registering his movements. The soap is supposedly unscented, but he could identify every ingredient if he was really trying to. He’s not. The mental fog of the water is too good to leave.

 

He stands there for a minute more, soap long washed down the drain. He doesn’t do anything - just stands beneath the scalding spray. He hates the feeling of the shower floor beneath his feet. When he was younger, he used to stand on his toes so he didn’t have to feel as much of it. He doesn’t rise up to his toes anymore.

 

He reaches for the handle and shuts the water off. It dies with a hiss as he steps out into the cool air. The hairs on his arms would stand up if they weren’t waterlogged, plastered to his skin with tiny droplets. He wraps a towel around himself, chasing the warmth. He reaches for the razor below the mirror, then pulls back. Better not to shave than to wonder what he would do with that razor if he stopped thinking.

 

He hasn’t been thinking as much as feeling lately.


End file.
